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might be able to beat Clare in fifteen minutes. It would be better if the fat man went outside, but it’s okay—Nelson can just keep his eyes on the board and on Clare’s skinny hands, looking closely at the tree of veins on the back of each one, blue branches pointing toward the fingers.
    “All right,” Clare says, like she’s giving in, like she isn’t completely ready to kick his ass. “Set it up.”
    Nelson plays as he always does, death in a bow tie, moving his front line cautiously but already dreaming of the queens slaughtered in their castles, gazing down at his men in terror and admiration, flames leaping orange and blue across their wooden walls.
    “Game of Pharaohs,” William says. The kid must study Egypt. Mummies and Cleopatra’s negritude and the pyramids are what pass for history now. Half an hour left, and they’re going to spend it with Clare’s little friend.
    Nelson pauses in front of one of Clare’s pieces. It’s not an advantageous jump.
    “If you can jump, you must,” William says.
    “Shut up. He knows.”
    Clare rolls her eyes so Nelson can see: Ignore him. Nelson nods. He has met some very nice white people, but none of them have been men. He jumps Clare’s piece, and she jumps his.
    “Watch yourself, young man,” Clare says.
    “You watch yourself,” Nelson says, and laughs.
    “Tough guy,” William says, and Nelson smiles tightly and looks away.
    William sees Nelson’s opportunity, an unguarded square that will open up the board for him. You have it, William thinks, you may as well take it. He looks closely at Nelson, as he used to look at his daughter when they played Scrabble. See it, he thinks, see it. Do it. Nelson looks at William as if he’s spoken and scans the board. Nelson thinks hard. The man’s face is all lit up with wanting Nelson to win. Nelson and the fat man are going to beat Clare, is what Nelson sees. Nelson jumps like crazy, bouncing his man two, then three times and pounding his fists on the floor.
    Clare claps.
    “Good God. Well. Let’s see what I can do with this … ruination.” It is short work after that. Nelson’s men saunter around the board picking off Clare’s pieces and when she has trouble reaching to discard them, he scoops them up for her, tossing them in his palm once or twice and laying them on the side of the board in a neat line. They look good, one big red dot after another.
    Mrs. Slater honks the horn, which is not what she usually does, but she still has to set up the Jumble Sale and the Baked Goods Table today, and this stop for winter clothes is out of her way. There’s no help for it, poor Clare, and it’s worth it for the six coats and the many pairs of shoes and the men’s suits that will go fast, but this is not something she has time for today.
    Sorry to leave the scene of his triumph, Nelson leaps up, to show off for them one more time, graceful and determined as a knight on horseback, and he trips over his untied laces. He puts his hands out toward the floor, but the edge of the coffee table, a sheet of granite, catches him fiercely on the face, and he is down on the rug, screaming in pain and fear and because blood is flowing right into his eye. William very gently puts Clare’s feet aside, picks up the boy, and carries him into the kitchen.
    “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. It’s just blood, it’s okay.” It may not be okay, but William can see both eyes whole and no bone showing, and if the boy’s not blind or crippled, it should be more or less okay.
    Clare comes in on her crutches, white around the mouth. She runs cold water and hands an icy dish towel to Charles, who lays it on the small curvy wound, a little red mouth exhaling blood. Nelson stops screaming. Blood soaks the dish towel.
    Charles says, “A couple of Band-Aids, Clare?” and he pulls the edges of the gash together tightly, so tightly Nelson squirms under him, but Charles pins him gently and puts the bandages on,